


Somersault on the Sawdust

by gigantic



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M, Warped Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-30
Updated: 2007-09-30
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18549976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: It's a pretty strange summer.





	Somersault on the Sawdust

Saying that Patrick doesn't care about what Pete has to say might be harsh. They stand a few feet away from the stage, watching as the band starts into the third song. He's just trying to pay attention.

Patrick says, "Did you know Bob used to play jazz? Like, that's his training. I don't know for how long or what ensembles, but he was telling me he played it growing up."

"Yeah?" Pete asks. He scratches his head, stuffs his hand back in his jacket pocket and says, "Yeah, no, Mikey said -- "

And it's not that Patrick doesn't care, but he's heard a lot about what Mikey has to say lately. All of Pete's sentences are starting to sound similar. Patrick nods his head every couple sentences, because Pete stops for that. He likes to make sure people are listening, and Patrick lets his eyes wander across the stage as he says, "mhm," occasionally to keep Pete happy. On stage, Gerard leans forward, one foot on the monitor in front of him as he sings, and a few feet past him, Frank drops to his knees, head bowed as he picks out the rhythm.

"Or maybe three different ones," Pete says. "You know?"

"Yeah," Patrick says, "Yeah, sure," and keeps watching.

;;

Patrick actually really enjoys having Mikey's band around. They've always sort of known those guys, have been able to hang around them the few times their schedules have crossed paths during festivals in the past year or so. They had an impromptu party between the buses within the first week of Warped tour, their vehicles parked next to one another. Patrick had gotten into a conversation with Ray on his way back to his own bus, and it somehow started there, each of the other guys stopping to join in as they came past. Eventually Joe raised the blinds on their bus, opened a window, and turned the radio up.

Patrick sees even more of them now. It's hard not to run into each other when both bands are part of the same cross-country caravan, but Pete also always asks Patrick if he wants to come over to their bus with him before he asks the others. It had taken Patrick maybe four visits before he'd noticed that Mikey was waiting for Pete every time they stopped by, that he was the one opening the door, and the only real reason Patrick caught on then is because it had stood out to him the first time they went by and Pete tapped the code in himself.

"What, you're a regular now?" Patrick had asked.

Pete opened the door and smiled when he stepped back to motion Patrick in first. He'd just said, "Yeah, this way's easier."

Patrick generally doesn't ask about it. He tends to stay up front with others and share in their mutual, mostly silent agreement to pretend to be totally oblivious. After Las Cruces, Pete disappears within the first ten seconds of walking onto the bus, Mikey getting up from his place on the small couch and leading him towards the back lounge. Patrick takes Mikey's space, saying hello to Gerard and Ray and settling in for whatever movie they've been talking through, and Frank stumbles in to interrupt lively conversations by announcing that Bob might, uh, want to be left alone for a while, his shoulders bouncing.

"Hey, Patrick," Frank then says, lifting his hand in greeting.

Patrick asks, "Bob got tired of you bothering him?"

"Tomato, tomahto," Frank says, holding his hands flat like he's weighing both sides. He drags out the second pronunciation and smiles again. "Bothering, showering with affection. It's all relative."

"Frankie," Gerard says. "The band doesn't work if Bob files a restraining order."

Frank waves his and snorts. He flops down on the floor just in front of Patrick, and he says, "Bob wouldn't. He loves me."

"Mm, I don't know," Ray says, and he looks genuinely skeptical. At least, he looks for real enough that Frank shakes his head and points to himself, vehement when he speaks.

"But I'm fucking adorable," he insists, and he turns to Patrick as if seeking confirmation. "Objective opinion?"

Patrick shifts, catches that everyone's attention has shifted to him, and then laughs and says, "Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I'm overwhelmed by you, really."

"Thank you!" Frank throws his hands up like he's relieved that someone has finally seen reason. 

"You pressured him into that!" Ray accuses.

Frank holds his hand to his chest and calmly says, "I would never. I would _never_. Get Mikey up here. I'm his favorite person too -- "

"You wish," Bob says, appearing in the small doorway, joining them. "I really doubt Mikey prefers you over whoever's helping him in the bunk right now. Is his new boyfriend over, because I think he's making out -- oh, hey, Patrick."

"Hey." Patrick scratches his arm and then waves to Bob. He suddenly feels like he should disclaim himself. He should make it clear that he's not Pete's keeper or anything. He's not waiting for him, or. Patrick doesn't even really know what it is he feels like he should say, but _something_ , so he tries, "Frank says you get off on harassment."

"That is not -- I didn't!" Frank says, laughing as he tries to defend his position, and the focus shifts away from Patrick -- from Pete and Mikey.

He's alright hanging in their lounge, talking about whatever, but after too long, Patrick _does_ start to feel like he's lingering for a reason, and Pete still has yet to resurface. Thankfully -- Patrick's pretty thankful, anyway -- they don't hear anything coming from the back while he's up front, except for one instance where something thumps and Pete laughs while Mikey complains about his head.

"Inside voices!" Gerard calls, and Pete's laughter rings out again.

He says, "We're okay, we're okay," as Mikey groans, "Oww," and then the sound settles again.

Frank falls over on the floor, curled up and amused, and when Bob kicks at the heel of his shoe, Frank rolls onto his back, his shoulder covering the toes of Patrick's shoes. He flings his arm out, letting it fall against Patrick's calf, propped up awkwardly. He has a grin spilling across his face when he glances up at Patrick. He says, "I have a feeling this is going to be a regular thing."

Patrick huffs, a quick sound that could be a laugh but gets stopped in his chest. He blinks and hopes the way his lips stretch on their own looks not like a wince but a smile. 

"Uhm," he says, and then Ray starts talking about something on the television. Patrick thinks he should go.

He waits ten minutes, staring at his knees or the way Frank's hand keeps fidgeting when it rests against his calf. When he leaves, he stretches an arm over his head and yawns, announcing his fatigue. Frank pats his legs and says, okay, but Patrick should come around again, and Gerard seconds the sentiment before Patrick opens the door and ducks out.

His own bus is a lot quieter in comparison. Joe's playing video games in the front lounge and Andy's reading in is bunk. Patrick sits up with his laptop for a while, and when Pete comes back, he's whistling to himself. He taps Patrick's shoulder as he passes, but they don't speak, and Patrick resists his inclination to peek at the corner of his computer screen and check the hour.

;;

The first time Pete spends the entire night on Mikey's bus, Patrick doesn't even realize it until Bob and Ray are carrying pieces of a drum kit past him, and Ray sets a floor tom down as he says, "If one of you guys get to crash our bus, then one of us at least gets to come fill in the blank on your end."

"Huh?" Patrick squints. He lets his mouth take the shape of a smile, because with the sun in his eyes, it's already halfway there anyway.

"I think it's cool if Pete stays," Ray says, dusting his palms across his thighs, "but we're packed tight in there. Especially when Brian wants to come out too. I call his bunk when he forfeits it is all I'm saying."

"No, forget that," Bob says. "You don't have Mikey's bunk right over you. If anybody's earned a relocation, it's me."

"Pete stayed on your bus last night?" Patrick asks.

Ray pushes his hair out of his face, nodding, and it doesn't help any because the breeze shoves it all right back into him again. He eventually has to put a hand on his head and hold it all off. He laughs at himself, then says, "Yeah. I guess you didn't miss him?"

Apparently not. In his defense, though, Pete hadn't been around when Patrick crawled into his bunk the night before, but he'd been there when Patrick woke up around noon, so he hadn't had much reason to notice anything. He doesn't imagine it really makes a difference though. Even if he had noticed, well. Whatever.

"Yeah, you guys can come crash." He's still squinting, and the way his teeth are already bared makes it easy to open his mouth to chuckle. "Sorry about dropping our baggage off with you. Hey, do you guys need help with any of this stuff?"

Bob and Ray laugh too, and then Ray points back to a bunch of equipment set out near a rig. "Yeah, yeah, just grab whatever."

They do start coming over sometimes, and Patrick's not out to pick favorites, but he always ends up laughing the most when Frank shoehorns himself into the party on someone else's night. Frank usually shows up bombarding Bob more and taunting him about trying to escape the creaking sounds of the bunks above his at night. The mental images and sounds that conjures will leave Patrick scarred forever, but Bob's attempts to suppress Frank by physically shutting his mouth as Frank squawks are too hilarious to hold it against him.

Frank runs to hide behind Patrick on their bus one night, and Bob swears he can wait it out. He can wait for Frank to eventually give up the safe place, and then catch him and tape his mouth shut, if that's what it takes.

Frank says, "Okay, truce! Truce, white flag; let's call it quits."

He extends a hand, and Bob looks skeptical. They face off for two full minutes, and the second Bob breaks down and holds out his own hand, Patrick hears Frank start to make suggestive creaky noises right next to his ear and then burst into laughter.

"Aww, Frankie, come on!" Bob pleads, probably the closest thing to whining Patrick has ever heard from the guy. Frank keeps on giggling. So far, Patrick thinks Warped tour is mostly worthwhile.

Frank asks, "What? _What_?" as if he's totally innocent, and the second he decides to chance making the straight shot to the back lounge, Bob is hot on heels while Frank hollers about being framed.

;;

In fact, to let Frank tell it, he hasn't been a sarcastic ass a day in his life. It's basically a lie.

Patrick really likes that about him though, enjoys his quick wit and easy laugh. He likes the way Frank bounces between humor and unexpected sincerity, too. It's something that should feel like a contradiction, the way he's simultaneously all kinetic energy and one of the coolest, most collected people Patrick's come across in a long time, but it works for him somehow. Patrick runs into Frank during the tour -- around the tents, after their sets, by the buses -- and he knows Frank's going to make him laugh. He likes that he can expect to have a good time, not take anything too seriously, and so it jars Patrick the afternoon he's complaining about a chord progression and how he missed one of the vocal slides on stage, and Frank says, "but it's fucking sick, though."

"Well," Patrick says, waiting to hear the catch that doesn't come somewhere in the compliment. He knows how this works; this is how Frank is, and he can't chuckle if there's no funny follow-up.

He trips through his thank you a moment later then, and Frank sort of laughs like he knows he's come at Patrick from left field, like that's the joke. He grins, but then he hums a couple notes, barely even a whole measure and says, "Yeah, no, you're good. The one song -- I don't know the words, but I had one stuck in my head earlier, after you guys finished."

"Oh, yeah, which, um." Patrick tilts his head one way and then back. He scratches his knee and squints even though they're standing in the shade. "Hum it for me or something, and I can -- "

He doesn't know why he offers, but Frank tries. He starts, kind of shaking his head like he knows he's probably messing it up and scraps that attempt almost immediately after he gets into it. Instead he talks about the intro on rhythm guitar. 

"It goes like, kind of a," he says, and does his best to recreate the sounds as his fingers mimic the notes mid-air.

Patrick eventually catches on, saying, "Oh, oh! Yeah, that's," and he sings the first few lines of 'Tell That Mick.' He cuts himself off before he hits the chorus. "That's one of the older ones."

"Yeah, that's the one." Frank bobs his head, tapping his thigh. Patrick wonders if he's hearing it again, trying to recall any of the parts he might know but doesn't ask. Frank laughs. "It's gonna be stuck in my head again."

"Sorry," Patrick says, shrugging in apology.

"No," Frank assures him. "No, it's cool."

;;

Within the next few days, between Long Beach and Marysville, whenever he sees Patrick, Frank starts asking, "How's it go again? That song I like."

Patrick gets used to it. He clears his throat and sings the words for Frank until Frank picks it up and finishes the verse with him. Patrick catches him mouthing the words during their set sometimes, singing along next to Ray or Mikey, usually just the first verse because it's the only part he really knows for a while.

It shouldn't surprise Patrick when he finds out Frank picks up the rhythm intro on his own, but it does. Frank plays it one day while his band does soundcheck, Patrick standing around at the side of the stage while they get their equipment set up. The first time he goes through it Patrick misses it completely, asking "What?" when he looks up and Frank's staring expectantly at him. The second time through Patrick laughs and shakes his head, waving off the cue.

"You're supposed to sing it!" Frank insists, He starts in again as the sound engineer asks if he can have more of the kick drum only, please. 

"Okay. Okay, I'm done," Frank promises, but right before they finish up, he plays the notes one last time and looks over. 

Patrick just gives him a look, and when he says, firmly, "Dude," Frank drops his head back and laughs. 

;;

If it's possible, Vancouver seems to have more Starbucks locations than most of the cities in the United States. Warped only runs through there for about a day and half, but in that time Patrick feels like Pete drags him to at least half of them so that he can refuel every ten minutes the way he needs to these days.

"Did Bob tell you?" Pete asks while they're standing in line, and Patrick wants to remind him that he isn't the one who spends half his time as the sixth member of My Chemical Romance.

Instead, he says, "Tell me what?"

"I was talking to him about what you said, about the drums," Pete says and explains that he told Bob it might be sweet if they switched. Actually, Mikey said he'd had fun playing with Fall Out Boy, and Bob and Ray agree that changing it up could be cool. "You haven't gotten to handle a kit live in, what, a few years now? You should think about it, dude."

Outside of their bus the next night, Patrick tells Bob he might want to play 'Venom.' That could be worthwhile -- fun.

"Personal challenge?" Bob asks and agrees, sure. Patrick can play whatever he wants.

"Something like that," Patrick says.

"Hey, yeah, knock yourself out. Just watch out for Frank, because he's --"

"-- A really amazing guy?" Frank cuts in, walking up at that moment. "Right?" Frank punches his arm and pushes him halfheartedly. "Right, Bob?"

" _I_ was gonna say that he's a lunatic," Bob says, and Patrick laughs.

Frank swears that he's not that bad. He says, "Passionate but not hazardous," and cuts his eyes sideways to gauge Bob's reaction, then admits, "Okay, sometimes. Sometimes I'm that bad."

"Fucking maniac," Bob says, leaning as if he's trying to warn Patrick off, and he swats at Frank fruitlessly when he squeezes Bob's shoulder. 

"Whatever, you're trying to scare him," Frank insists, and when he turns to Patrick, he reaches out so that he's touching Patrick's shoulder, too. He promises, "He exaggerates. I'll go easy on you. You're fine."

;;

Patrick listens to the song on headphones. He plays through the beats during his down time, against the ceiling of his bunk before sleeping, wherever he can. Bob lets him mess around on his kit during soundcheck, and Patrick has to scoot the throne closer. He holds the sticks in his hands, shifts until he's comfortable and imagines doing this in between songs, quickly getting ready to play with a crowd of people a few feet in front of him. He hasn't been on stage this way in too long, and Patrick almost can't tell if the twisting in his stomach is from nerves or excitement.

After a couple hands-on practices, Bob just comes over to Patrick's bus during the time Joe and Pete head across the lot to play with Ray and Mikey on theirs. The sessions are way more relaxed than calling it a practice implies. They watch television in the back lounge, Patrick shoving some of Pete's stuff out of the way so that people can actually sit down. He goes through the hits in his head, air drumming while they watch _Rushmore_. Calling it a practice is very nearly a misnomer.

Frank comes along for a couple of their informal sessions, sitting next to Patrick while he goes through the motions as Bob does the same thing across from them on the other couch. He switches sides and slaps Bob's hands when he gets restless, making him drop the beat, and he's impossible to shake each time Bob tries to shrug him off.

"Can't handle it, Bryar?" Frank taunts, holding onto his hand. "Are you a professional or what?"

Patrick laughs and maintains the rhythm himself, Bob saying, "Yeah. Yeah, see? Easy," every time he picks it up again and checks Patrick's hands.

"He's gonna steal your job," Frank says. Patrick glances down at his hands and catches Frank's eye as he looks up again, realizing that Frank's watching him. Frank takes a sip from his can of soda and smiles big.

He sticks around even when Patrick and Bob eventually stop going through the song together. Bob leaves, and Patrick does the repetitions a few times on his own, thumping his thighs, making sure he doesn't forget the imaginary kick or hi-hat pedals. 

Frank watches Patrick, sodacan frozen near his mouth, and says, "You're so nervous." 

Patrick says, "I haven't played drums in like -- It's been a while, and this is the fastest song."

"You picked it," Frank reminds, smiling.

Patrick says, "Yeah, but," and snaps his wrists against his thighs some more. When he finishes and gets ready to start over, Frank lifts his legs and drops his feet on Patrick's lap, forcing him to move his hands. Patrick looks down at his shoes, then glances over, and Frank shrugs, drinking his soda.

Patrick's just kind of amused. He says, "Okay. Alright, I'm done," and Frank smiles at him again. 

"Good. Don't worry about it," he says. He leaves his feet where they are.

"Okay," Patrick says again, raising his hands in surrender.

They chill out, watch television, talk about other things, and Patrick doesn't consciously notice he's started tapping out the rhythm on Frank's shin until Frank bounces his leg, bringing it to Patrick's attention. 

Patrick slumps down on the seat, laughing toward the ceiling, and scratches his face. He says, "I'm sorry, I can't help it." 

"You're too funny. I'm pretty sure you have it," Frank says, giving Patrick's thigh a reassuring thump with the heel of his foot.

"Yeah, _pretty_ sure." Patrick drums his fingers along Frank's leg again, his knee. 

Frank doesn't really laugh this time. He exhales through his nose and sets his can down on the floor. He slides his legs off, shifting over until he's next to Patrick and pauses. He hesitates like he's giving Patrick a moment to see it coming before he cranes forward and presses their mouths together. 

It's an easy kiss, sort of sweet. It takes Patrick a second longer than it should to react, but he responds with dedication when his senses catch up. He tilts his head and opens his mouth wider, and that's even nicer, Frank lifting a hand to Patrick's shoulder and swiping his thumb along his collar methodically.

"Too funny," Frank repeats, breath warm on Patrick's lips, and Patrick touches his arm, fingers bracing Frank's elbow.

Simple kisses, Patrick thinks. Frank chuckles in between rounds, pulls back to crack his neck and duck close again. They're probably only at it for a minute before something on TV catches their attention, makes them both laugh with the volume loud, and it's. It isn't suddenly like it nothing has happened, it just is what it is. Easy, quick, good. Patrick mentally runs off a few other short words meaning pleasant, and Frank leans back on the cushions.

"This movie is classic," he says. Patrick nods. He isn't wrong. 

They lose another half hour before Mikey and Pete come back to the bus talking loudly, bumping shoulders, leaning in conspiratorially. Gradually the evening just becomes about everything aside from them. Frank flicks the brim of Patrick's hat before he leaves, promising he'll catch him later, and he heads down the stairs with a little bounce in his step as he goes.

;;

Patrick can deal with heat. It's when they hit cities that are both hot _and_ humid that that he begins to get irritable. Not that he didn't grow up in Chicago, obviously, but a guy never really gets used to walking around uncomfortable and sticky, wiping his palms against his jeans in a repeatedly futile attempt at beating his unfortunate sweaty palm syndrome. 

"What?" Mikey asks.

"My hands," Patrick says, "They're, you know. Nevermind."

"You could wear gloves to absorb the moisture," Mikey says with all the certainty of someone who has probably tried it before. He smirks, the side of his mouth twitching. "But then your hands are hotter. We were about to go find coffee. You want?"

Patrick shakes his head. What he wants is to get better acquainted with some air-conditioning. Even the bus is hotter than anyone would like because it's so warm outside. What he definitely doesn't want is to tag along with Pete and Mikey right now, playing third wheel on their quest for Frappucinos or whatever. They're good together, is the thing, in that way where all they have to talk about is each other, absorbed in themselves, and Patrick's glad that Pete's happy, but there's an intensity there that Patrick doesn't want to look at directly for too long. He knows how that goes for Pete, how things that flare and make his eyes bright in an instant tend to end, and Patrick has always liked Mikey.

Instead, Patrick sits around and drinks a lot of water until it's time for them to take stage. He gets right back to doing the same thing after their set, finally taking advantage of the evening when things cool down. He finds a bus, any bus, and someone hands him a drink almost immediately.

It's a Thursday.

Patrick's been in this position enough times now -- double-fisting Dixie cups behind tour buses -- that he knows his limit and pushes just a couple drinks past it. He can't stop licking his lips as he walks back to his own bus, a melody tugging at his senses, and it feels good to hum. 

My Chem's bus is running, engine idling, and Patrick finds Frank behind it, leaning against the back. He has his eyes closed, humming low to himself like he's listening to the way the engine vibrations make the sound stutter.

"Hey," Patrick calls softly, waiting for Frank to open his eyes, and then he moves any closer. He knows from experience how much it sucks when someone touches him before they make their presence known, startling Patrick half out of his skin. Frank turns his face and gestures at the open space beside him, though, shifting so that he's leaning one shoulder against the bus and reaching out to Patrick with the other.

"Hi, Trick," he says, knuckles brushing Patrick's stomach in a soft hello. It's the hand with the cigarette in it, the scent wafting up to Patrick's nose as Frank pulls it back to take another drag. "Do people call you that? Trick?"

"Not really, no," Patrick says.

"Maybe they should," Frank says, smiling. "I think it sounds kind of cool."

"It's better than Pat."

"Which you hate." He takes another drag and turns his face to exhale. Patrick isn't anal about cigarettes even though he doesn't care for them, the smell, but it's one of those things he notices about people without meaning to -- whether they think to angle away from people who aren't smoking or not. Frank says, "I don't remember how I know that. I think we talked about it once."

"You probably called me Pat."

"Maybe," Frank says, smirking. "I do that -- nicknames. Especially when I'm drunk, so I wouldn't be surprised."

"Ah, speaking of," Patrick says and lifts his hands to indicate the drinks he's been carrying. "I forget which is which. One has rum and the other has whiskey, but they're both mixed with coke. I think. I've already had a couple."

He offers both, and Frank takes what's in Patrick's left hand, sniffing the contents. He says, "Thanks, man. I don't have much to trade, except, uh -- "

He holds out his cigarette, head ducked and eyebrows raised in a question. Smoking _really_ isn't Patrick's thing, but it's the thought behind the gesture that matters. He leans forward, and Frank flips his hand around to hold the filter to Patrick's lips for him.

"You want to hold it?" he asks, but Patrick shakes his head and then takes a pull.

"I got it," he says as he steps back again, exhaling. The smoke tingles in his throat. He coughs a little, holding it in and puffing out his cheeks once. "Thanks."

"Yeah, sure." Frank downs some of his brand new drink, and Patrick follows with his own. Bringing it down again, he says, "So this is where you sneak off to every night?"

Patrick snorts. "Yeah, the secret life of Patrick -- no, this is just. The guys in Matches have their whole -- "

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that," Frank says, amused. He shakes his head and looks down at his cup. "Shawn. That guy..."

"Yep," Patrick says. "Pretty much."

Frank reaches out to tap at Patrick's shoulder, holding the cigarette, and the filter taps his shirt. "You aren't trying to take the edge off for playing with us, are you?"

"I don't think this buzz will last two days," Patrick says, laughing lightly. He drinks some more and figures, yeah, this has to be the whiskey. 

Frank says, "Hey, you never know. Maybe this is the beginning of a forty-eight-hour prep thing. How could I tell?"

Patrick denies it. "I'm not that nervous."

"You were that nervous the other day, practicing." Frank takes one last drag and then drops his cigarette, stubbing it out in the dirt under his shoe. "What, you're a bastion of calm now? I'm fucking excited."

"I'm calm, yeah, for the most part. They're not regular nerves, but like I think I'll get an anxiousness right before," Patrick says. "It's different because you guys aren't -- I'm not on stage with you all the time, so there's still that."

"Just think of it like karaoke," Frank says. "Except it's for... drums. Wow, it's kind of late, I'm sorry."

He grins when Patrick laughs again, shifting closer and then resting his arm on Patrick's shoulder. It feels companionable rather than suffocating, the way Patrick sometimes can't handle when people who are a lot taller try to lean on him. Frank smacks his lips together after he drinks, licks them and stretches his mouth pleasantly, looking to Patrick.

"Karaoke..." Patrick says quietly, picking up the lost thread of their conversation. "I was kind of wailing earlier, with Shawn. A few drinks, and I can't help it."

Frank's eyes crinkle when his smile splits, showing teeth. "Oh, yeah? What songs?"

"It changes. There's always some Bowie, though."

"I turn into Cher, man," Frank says. He sounds happy about it, some special combination of pride and self-mocking. "It's hilarious. Or that's what I hear. To me, it always sounds like best shit I've ever tried to sing."

Patrick smirks, asking, "So you get drunk and believe in life after love?"

"Ha! No, no," Frank says, bending close to tuck his mouth against his arm on Patrick's shoulder momentarily. His smile is no dimmer when he pulls back, "No, I go way before that. I'm very old school. You got me and, baby, I got you."

Patrick hums the next bar, cutting himself short when he realizes he's doing it. He says, "Wow, see? You barely mention a tune, and I take off with it. I think -- I'm gonna take a guess here, dude, and say I'm drunk. I should go sleep it off."

"Nuh uh, look at me," Frank says, and Patrick widens his eyes as he obeys. Frank laughs, says, "Relax," and smiles slowly when Patrick does, surveying him. "Yeah, you're wasted. It's dark, so I can't tell for sure, but you look kind of flushed."

"I don't doubt it." Patrick nods sagely.

Frank says, "It's almost cute."

"Whatever," Patrick says, and Frank laughs. 

Patrick doesn't expect him to dart in, but he doesn't stop it either when their teeth click. It takes them a moment, the bus rumbling next to them as they figure it out. There's a weird sensation where the vibrations make Frank's lips buzz strangely against Patrick's as they reconnect, and then they're just kissing. All shock gone, they stand against the bus, preoccupied with the slow, slick slide of lips and tongue. Frank makes a delighted sort of noise, some quiet groan that doesn't seem dirty but warm, and when they break their eyes fly open.

"Night, Trick," Frank whispers, the words almost lost in the sounds around them. Patrick recognizes his taste then, smells the smoke on Frank, but instead of rocking forward again on instinct, Patrick slides a foot back.

"Later," he says, and then, "Don't call me that." 

Frank laughs again, the sound soft and muffled by his closed-mouth smile. Patrick hesitates, and then spins around, heading around a corner to reach his own bus before he takes the time to wonder if he'd meant he intended to go to bed right then when he first mentioned it.

;;

"I think I'm in love," Pete says, and he's not kidding. Pete doesn't know how to joke about this kind of thing, not really. Even if it's some passing impulse, one day of sunsets and quick moments behind a club, Patrick's learned that Pete believes it. Who even knows what Pete's referring to anyway? He falls in love with everything -- people, his dog, music, the French fries at Del Taco, new drinks at Starbucks.

Patrick's head hurts. Drinking whiskey might have been a bad idea. He knows it's never really agreed with him before, so of course this time wouldn't be different. This isn't a very great morning.

"Oh, yeah? That's, uh. Good," Patrick says, sitting upright on the couch. 

He cups his hand over his forehead, holding very still until it stops feeling like his brain rattles inside his skull. God, he hadn't even been that drunk. This headache isn't even fair. Pete kicks his foot, and Patrick grits his teeth as if the sensation will echo through his body and jar his head, bracing himself for everything just in case.

"Don't fucking patronize me," Pete says, flicking Patrick's shoulder.

"Do we have aspirin? Or --or," Patrick looks to the side carefully, but no bottles of painkillers magically appear on the empty countertop. Too bad. "And I'm not patronizing you, I'm still half-asleep."

He talks to Pete with his eyes closed, willing away the throb in his head. A minute later, something nudges at his arm, and when he looks, it's Pete with two pills and a water bottle.

"I know you're not supposed to take candy from strangers, but..." he says. He holds out the items and smirks when Patrick takes them. "Wild night out?"

Patrick twists open his bottle, downs the pills and shrugs as he swallows. Gasping, he says, "Mn, nothing important. Tell me what you were saying now."

"Oh, that was pretty much all of it," Pete says, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrays his nonchalance. He scratches his fingernails over the teeth of his zipped hoodie and bounces his leg idly before finally saying, "No, I was just on the other side of the lot with Mikey -- "

He doesn't lose the thread of Pete's words immediately or anything. Pete's talking about skipping rocks or something, which is something Patrick never really got the hang of but apparently Mikey's a pro at, and Patrick is definitely paying close attention. Pete keeps his hand placed on his thighs, knees fitting nicely under the arc of thumbs and forefingers. It makes Patrick think of Frank suddenly, propped against the tour bus and gesturing with his cigarette in one hand. Patrick changed his pants but left on the same t-shirt when he crashed, and the fabric still smells faintly of smoke.

"Wow, you're more hungover than you let on," Pete says.

"What?" Patrick blinks and rubs his eye. "No, my head hurts kind of, but I'm good."

"So you're ignoring me because you just don't care then." Pete's laughing about it, rolling his eyes.

"I'm listening -- "

He pats Patrick's leg and stands up, saying, "No, hey, I get it. It's early for you; it's only noon. Wash up a little, dude, you reek."

"I do not," Patrick counters, but he lifts his arm carefully and takes a closer whiff just in case. It could be worse. He just smells like leftover party, really. It's mostly the shirt.

"You kind of do," Pete says. He waves his fingers back and forth in front of his face, wrinkling his nose, and Patrick tosses his closed water bottle at him. Laughing, Pete adds, "Okay, okay, wow. Calm down, Grumpy dwarf. Call me when you want to get food, man. I'm going over to the other bus."

The other bus. It must be indicative of something that Patrick knows what Pete means from only an offhand comment like that, but the ache in his skull prevents him from caring about what it might be for more than an instant. He does wash up in the small bus bathroom some, careful to waste as little of the water as possible. After, in a fresh shirt and jeans, the painkillers have begun to kick in and help out. He feels less like leftovers, and with a hat settled on his head, his eyes are shielded from the sun. 

He doesn't find Pete, because he runs into Frank first. He's bent over a cooler, angled away from Patrick, and it doesn't escape him that he doesn't see Frank's face but instead recognizes the shape of him. His t-shirt pulls up enough to expose skin. Patrick's first instinct -- natural inclination, really, that's all -- is to get his attention that way. He could either press his hand to the small of Frank's back or tug the shirt to his pants again, so Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets and settles for saying his name.

"Yeah?" Frank asks, looking around. He's one of those people that turns his attention to others with raised eyebrows, curious. Patrick sort of assumed he smiled all the time, but he has his lower lip sucked into his mouth, and the grin doesn't come until he recognizes Patrick, greeting him upside down. "Hey, look who it is. You feel okay?"

"Eh," Patrick says, stepping back a pace when Frank straightens up. He seems to have successfully seized two Diet Cokes despite the Dixie cup of whatever else he's already holding.

"I drank a couple from Mikey's stash. Have to replace them," Frank explains, indicating the sodas. "I don't even know whose cooler this is. Don't tell, okay?"

Patrick pinches two fingers together and drags them across his mouth, zipping his lips. Frank nods once, thankful, and hands off a can to Patrick, saying, "Hold that one for me."

He follows Frank back to his own bus, wondering when the silent agreement to do so happened. Patrick had been about to go do... something; he can't remember now. Instead, he lets Frank lead the way inside, trying not to look at Frank's ass through his jeans as they enter, except he's two stairs ahead of Patrick, so it isn't really the easiest task Patrick's ever been faced with here. He tries looking down at their feet.

"It's way too hot out there. You want anything?" Frank says, opening the mini fridge to stash the sodas. He starts to sing-song. "I could get you a nice cup of orange juice to match mine."

Patrick says, "No, I'm good. I promise."

"Sure?" Frank asks, and he shuts the fridge again when Patrick nods. "Alright. Do you have a plan for the afternoon, or are you just going with it?"

"Why, do _you_ have a plan?"

Frank shrugs a shoulder and makes Patrick wait for an answer while he drinks his juice. His mouth is wet when he lowers the cup again, and as he licks his lips, Patrick thinks about standing behind the buses again. He's almost certain he'd never had an actual goodnight kiss before that, and it strikes him as funny and fitting that Frank is into that kind of thing.

He says, "Just watching sets before it's our turn. You want to keep me company?"

Patrick doesn't really have anywhere else to be, and Frank grabs his hand and guides him out into the heat again before Patrick has the chance to answer. There's always something about high temperatures that's inevitably draining even though Patrick only stands around watching people play. The sun is so bright he thinks he can honestly feel his skin burning, and the idea that anybody might want to touch anybody else and add to the uncomfortable heat is ridiculous, but then Frank hooks his arm over Patrick's shoulders. He leans in to ask, "So. Present company excluded, which band do you think is really bringing it so far?" and then never drops back again, and Patrick. Well, Patrick finds that he doesn't really mind as much as he could, and anyway it's easier to hear Frank that close. 

Spending the summertime experiencing the unfortunate temperature first hand usually makes minutes feel like times drags on forever, extending torture spent in too much warmth. Patrick loses track of the day though, and when he realizes that it's time for them to find the rest of their respective bands, Frank's arm shifts against Patrick, skin hot against the back of Patrick's neck, and he keeps saying things like, "Can you believe this weather? Mother _fucker_."

"And yet you're wearing two t-shirts," Patrick says, because it's true. He can see the white undershirt peeking from the neck of his blue shirt, and it hurts Patrick just to look at it.

"Yeah, I know," Frank says. "I don't know what I was thinking when I got up."

"Not much, it looks like," Patrick says, and he laughs when Frank bumps a hip hard into him as they walk.

Frank finally splits away from Patrick before Patrick finds his band, promising to catch up with him later, and then blowing an exaggerated kiss. That's something else that strikes Patrick about Frank: he's all quick wit and biting sarcasm, but his inclination to spread affection definitely rivals that. At least, Frank's always practically a Care Bear to the majority of folks that _Patrick_ has seen him interact with on this tour. Patrick also sort of knows first hand at this point and, okay, that's still something he has yet to really think about too hard.

When Patrick finds the other guys, Pete's fixing the strap on his bass and then throwing the instrument around his shoulders. Patrick high-fives Joe after giving them a blanket hello, and then he says to Pete, "You know there are probably safer ways to test that."

"Safer and less fun, no doubt," Pete says. He looks a little surprised for a second, like he can't believe Patrick forgot his middle name is occasionally "Danger." The expression quickly softens, and then Pete knits his eyebrows together. "Wait, dude, where'd you disappear to? I thought you were gonna get food with me and Mikey."

"Oh. Yeah." Patrick nods even though he had actually kind of forgotten about that. "I looked for you, but I didn't know where you were."

"You've could've called my cell. I had it on."

"Well, you know. I looked for you," Patrick repeats, and he shrugs, bending to scratch his knee. There really isn't a reason for the lie. "So what'd you end up eating?"

;;

The heat doesn't magically disappear once he's onstage the next day, it's just that Patrick has other things to worry about as Bob hops off the riser and pats him on his shoulder. He somehow manages to look and sound both sincere and mocking as he says, "No pressure, right?"

"Never," Patrick says. 

And he _doesn't_ necessarily feel nervous, just different. The kids in the audience sound okay with it from what he can tell as Gerard gives an introduction. Patrick takes a moment to adjust the distance between the throne and kit, because Bob really does insist on sitting about a foot away from his equipment, it seems like. Patrick's feeling a lot more confident once he's situated though, rolling his wrists in preparation, and when Gerard says his name again, people holler, but Patrick glances off toward stage right. Frank's holding onto the neck of his guitar, smiling and sweaty.

Right then, during that suspended moment between Gerard speaking and his click type cuing him, Patrick feels every degree of the sweltering heat. When he starts in the next instant, the vague sense of being trapped in it pushes out of his mind, replaced by guitars and focusing on his own heavy drumming. He doesn't have much chance to spare glances at the rest of them, but when he does, he thinks the rest of the band is more intense from this angle, even Mikey, who turns back to direct his playing to Patrick.

He relaxes into the whole thing for a moment, confident in his movements, and then Frank walks over and makes to climb up onto the kick drum. He remembers Bob's warning and hopes to hell Frank doesn't fall over, because Patrick knows this song, but he doesn't want to have to do any quick thinking to cover if Frank knocks out part of the kit or something. Frank steps up onto the kick, playing with his mouth parted, and Patrick just thinks, _Please don't fall_. Frank's intense though, not smiling but staring straight down, and Patrick doesn't think anything of it in the moment. He looks up at Frank and smiles even though Frank only really looks at him briefly, otherwise occupied with playing and maintaining his balance.

But then after. Patrick's grateful when the song ends, and both Frank and the kit are still standing. Gerard comes back to give Patrick a hug before he leaves the stage to watch the rest of the set from the side, and Frank catches him quickly right after, both he and Patrick sweating and worn out. Mind free to wander now that the song's over, Patrick thinks about how Frank looked a few feet over him, mouth open slightly and tries not to freeze too long thinking about it.

It's a while before Patrick has any real opportunity to chill out with them that evening, but Bob finds him after the sun's gone down and hands Patrick a celebratory Red Bull. 

"Or I could find you a beer," he offers, but Patrick shakes his head.

"No, I'm good." This is fine. He's actually not in the mood to drink tonight.

Bob bumps his own can against Patrick's arm, smirking, and says, "You didn't fuck up."

He doesn't sound surprised, but still Patrick shrugs. "I had a little luck on my side after all."

"When's the last time you played?"

"Drums? Wow, a long time. Yeah, I'm not even sure," Patrick says, popping open the energy drink. It's cold, and Patrick downs a few healthy gulps. He can still feel the heat pressing in around him despite the darkness of the evening. He kind of just wants to hang out and do nothing. "Where's Frank? And Gerard, and -- You guys hanging out?"

"I think they're on the bus," Bob says. He moves in that direction as he answers, and Patrick falls in line behind him.

As soon as they step on the bus, Patrick hears Ray say, "Oh, there he is."

From his place, Gerard stops poking through the cabinets and even claps before stepping over to Patrick and patting his shoulder. He says, "Thanks for playing with us today. That was really awesome, a really sweet job."

"I was just focused on not letting a stick fly out of my hand," Patrick says, shrugging it off. Ray laughs and Gerard shakes his head, insisting that no, nah, of course Patrick was going to get through it alright. He got through it _great_.

"You probably looked like less of a douche than I did the first time I played with them," Bob sliding around Patrick and past Gerard to stand in the doorway leading to the bunks.

"That's not true," Rays. He scratches his elbow and then points at Bob, promising, "No, Bob was good, too. Remember watching him on that monitor? For the video?"

"Actually," Gerard says, nodding now as he pulls out a bag of chips and then turns around to lean against the cabinets and eat. "When Bob did that -- you hadn't played in years, Bob, right? So, yeah, Patrick, you were kind of in the same boat."

Patrick pulls up on the bill of his hat and then resettles it. "Well, you know. Bob's still the one playing regularly with you guys for a reason. I just came to say thanks again. Are, uh, Mikey and Frank here too?" 

"Mikey's not. I don't know where he is, but I think Frank's -- Frank! Are you here?" Gerard raises his voice, and then coughs into the back of his hand once. He looks at his hand, contemplating it, and then runs it over his pants before reaching into the chip bag again.

"Huh?" a voice calls, muffled. It has to be Frank, Patrick thinks, and then he rolls out of a bunk and stumbles into the front lounge. "What? I finally got that portable DVD player to work."

"It wasn't broken," Ray says.

"But it wasn't _working_ ," Frank reiterates. He rubs a hand over his neck and kneads the muscle there. "I'm watching _Spinal Tap_ , but it's hard trying to watch the thing on your stomach, you know? The angle's weird."

Patrick asks, "There isn't room for you to sit up in these bunks?"

"Nah, because they're triple-stacked -- hey," Frank says, looking up after he prods at his muscles again, realizing. "Nice job today, man."

"Aw, no big deal," Patrick says, shrugging it off. "Thanks."

"Are you celebrating right now?"

"Why do you think he's here?" Gerard asks. His words are muffled by the food in his mouth. He takes a moment to swallow, dusting his hand off on the pants leg again and then reaches out to pat Patrick's shoulder. "Don't mind me. I'm not actually a slob. Anyway -- you're hanging with us? We're just chillin' here."

"I can't find my band," Patrick says, holding up his cup in some kind of agreement.

"Stay with us!"

Frank snorts and works his way past all of them, saying, "He doesn't want to hang out here." To Patrick, he adds, "Gerard has these National Geographic, Animal Planet-type documentary DVDs."

"They're fascinating," Gerard says, and Bob laughs. When Gerard asks why that's funny, Bob just shakes his head and swears it's nothing, nothing. He likes the meerkats.

Frank laughs too. He bumps a loose fist against Patrick's arm, catching the elbow. "You stole our set earlier, and someone got you an energy drink? Wow, let's go get you wasted."

"He said he was fine!" Bob pleads in his own defense.

"Please," Frank says, but Patrick nods.

He says, "I'm good with this, I swear."

"Well, then, let's get me wasted." Frank grins, and he's nudging at Patrick's side already. Patrick edges backwards and down the steps.

"Uh, okay. Okay, okay," he says, complying as Frank urges him along before he really has time to decide whether he'd like to stay to watch the meerkats as well. "I should say bye at least --"

"They know you like them," Frank insists, and Patrick stumbles as he moves down the steps quickly, but Frank flattens his palms on Patrick's shoulders, steadies him.

"Oh -- oh, shit, wait." Frank runs back up and vanishes while Patrick looks around outside. He can hear commotion coming from not too far away, other bands hanging out for the evening. When Frank reappears, he stops on the bottom step to slip on his other shoe and says, "Forgot footwear. Alright, let's go."

"You're not going to miss the movie you were watching?"

"Like I haven't seen it eighty times," Frank says. He reaches over and takes Patrick's Red Bull can without warning. Patrick doesn't think about it, just lets go, and Frank waterfalls a swig quickly and hands the drink back. "I was just bored, man. Where to?"

"You still want to find a drink of your own?" Patrick asking, eyeing Frank and then glancing at the can in his hand pointedly. Frank laughs.

"Sorry. No, no. I'm not really into it right now." He gives the area around them the same generic scan, twisting his mouth up as he tries to make a decision. "Alright, let's just. Why don't we just check out what other people are doing?"

It's as good a plan as any on tour, where working hours and free hours blur together too much because, no matter what time of day it is, they're still technically on the road. The thing is that there really isn't much _to_ do when you're traveling as part of a fleet of buses once you get through the obvious choices: movies, naps, and drinking. 

They visit a couple of the other bands, but most of them are just carrying out variations of the same ideas. He and Frank do two shots each with Shawn and his band, but after that they're both kind of over the notion for the evening and instead take to wandering through the buses and trucks but never checking out who's inside. 

Patrick likes this -- hanging around with Frank. In the few weeks they've been on the tour together so far, he and Patrick have already cultivated a tendency to veer towards conversations about the Jersey scene versus Chicago bands, and it's comfortable. They have a similar sense of humor, and music Patrick definitely knows, so he feels good having Frank walk next to him, talking a little too loudly. It's still good even when Frank throws his arm around Patrick's shoulder, and they're strolling that way, leaning into one another like they've got nice buzz going. Two shots isn't really enough to do it, Patrick thinks. He's not that much of a lightweight, but he does feel a bit warm, Frank thumping his hand on Patrick's shoulder as he speaks, the two of them incapable of moving forward without knocking each other further right and then the other pushing them back in the opposite direction. 

"Yeah, but nobody's going to deny The Misfits," Patrick says holding his hand out and flopping it against his side. "That's a cop-out, dude. You have to go smaller."

Frank swears Patrick's wrong. There are people who dislike The Misfits; he's met them. They're misguided folks, sure. Frank questions their well-being as people, but they exist. Patrick isn't allowing that answer though. They're talking about small-time, local bands who deserve to be classic and aren't. Frank argues that there are more quality punk bands in Jersey than in Chicago, and he's named a couple so far, but Patrick refuses to count anything Misfits, because they get credit. They do, come on. Frank knows it like Patrick knows it.

"Okay, but what about -- what about," Frank tries again. He names a band Patrick actually really likes.

He opens his mouth to say that, hey, he likes that band. Patrick's even bought a couple of their records. He's bought a record and an EP at least. Frank rocks right though, throwing them off-balance for a moment. Reflexes kicking in right away, Patrick braces the hand not resting in the middle of Frank's back on Frank's hip. It's his turn to steady the situation, and Frank laughs. He pushes up on the balls of his feet at the same time that Patrick glances at him, so he gets a great view of, well, Frank's neck and chin instead being able to talk to him directly.

The moment isn't so much confusing as it is random. Patrick clears his throat and tries to regain his thoughts. He says, "No, I like that ba--"

And Frank stops dead, suddenly repeating, "Hey, wait. Patrick, wait," over and over.

Patrick recognizes this pause. He can read it now, because he's been here with Frank a couple times before. He realizes that he can't hear much commotion from elsewhere standing where they are now. Patrick isn't even entirely sure what "where they are" really is if he's completely honest with himself. He sort of lost track of just how far down they walked, reduced to identifying the location as simply, oh, the place between an equipment rig and the chain link fence.

Frank dips in and hesitates, and Patrick only inhales. Frank closes the space in the next instant, his lips touching Patrick's mouth, softly asking permission. Patrick's half listening for people and half focused on enjoying this, the heat of his mouth. Frank holds onto Patrick's wrist, the fabric of his fingerless gloves scratching over Patrick's skin. When he pulls back, he smiles not like they've done this plenty, but like they could, like they're going to right then. The next kiss comes two seconds later and the third against the chain link, bending some from their weight. Frank raises his arms, hooking fingers in the spaces between twisted metal, closing in, and Patrick swallows it when Frank laughs airily, satisfied.

"So I lied," Frank says in a breathy whisper, smirking against the curve of Patrick's mouth. "Kind of."

"Hm?" Patrick's thoughts are moving slower suddenly, and he figures maybe he should be paying attention to this part. Frank -- lied -- or -- wow, Frank's a really good kisser. "You what?"

Frank giggles, the sound small and private. He's still leaning into Patrick, the metal of the fence scraping and rattling more with each of their movements. The give is strange. It's not confining like being pressed against a wall but not as solid either. Patrick touches Frank's waist, anchors himself with his fingers curled along Frank's belt, and there's a functional reason for this, but the way his thumb brushes under Frank's shirt and gets skin, that's. That's a pretty nice bonus.

Frank says, "Yeah, this is -- the reason I wanted you out here was for this."

"Oh," Patrick says, and Frank pulls back just enough that they can see one another's eyes. Patrick isn't exactly offended by that confession. "Then, wait, why'd you stop?"

The grin he earns makes him stretch his smile the same way in return, and as Frank pushes close to catch Patrick's lips again, Patrick lets his hand bump up on Frank's side an inch. Loosely, he braces Frank's waist, fingers pressed into the skin underneath worn t-shirt cotton. Frank hums into Patrick's mouth, a light moan that accompanies the way he takes one hand from the chain link and touches Patrick's face, his own fingertips imprinting on Patrick's cheeks.

This is different from the afternoon on the bus or a tipsy goodnight kiss. Those had felt friendly in comparison to the jolt of desire that shoots through Patrick when Frank crowds closer still. Something about the way Frank starts to lift onto the balls of his feet and drop again winds Patrick up. It's like the prelude to when Frank throws himself on someone like Bob or Worm, people who can hold him up and take his weight. Patrick definitely doesn't have the leverage to even pretend he can take all of that against this fence, but he slides his hand around to Frank's back, encouraging him to stay near, because he likes the idea, wants it.

The kisses get wetter but never too sloppy, the two of them making out in a hidden corner of the lot. Frank bites Patrick's lip lightly, pausing and then breathes in short pants against the corner of his mouth as his hand sneaks down and finds Patrick's belt.

"Hold on," Patrick says. "My bus."

"You want to go all the way back over there?" Frank asks. He looks a little surprised, desperate.

"It's probably empty," Patrick says. He tugs on Frank's shirt at the small of his back where Patrick's fingers have balled up in the fabric.

"Okay."

They hold hands as they walk back, and Patrick can't stop noting the heat between their palms. He's leading the way, faking it until his sense of direction comes back. It's a lot quicker retracing their steps when Patrick can cut out the aimless weaving they did between equipments trucks and the last of some tents still being disassembled. 

"Wait," Patrick says, halting. A few of the band buses look the same, and Patrick has to stop and recollect himself a moment, counting from the outside. "Okay, over here."

He hopes the chill he gets isn't too noticeable when Frank kisses the back of Patrick's neck before they start moving again.

"Forgot what your own bus looked like?" Frank asks.

"No, I got it."

It slams Patrick in the chest and slithers down into his stomach as they head down the narrow divide between one bus and another: he's going to hook up with Frank on his bus. Frank shifts his hand in Patrick's grip, and even that small bit of friction makes Patrick flush warm thinking about how Frank reached for his belt, how he's probably going to do that again. Remembering the code for the automatic lock is harder than usual when Patrick goes to punch the numbers.

"No lights on," Frank points out, head tilted up to observe the windows.

"I told you."

The door slides open with that same old space-age pressurized sounds. Patrick's gotten into the habit of making the noise under his breath as it happens. Frank releases his hand and hooks his fingers over the back of Patrick's belt as he climbs the steps. Patrick's stomach flips, excited. Without the lights, it's nearly pitch black on the bus, and as he makes it to the top steps he hears muttering and then something drop hard onto the floor, and his stomach rolls for a new reason.

"Shitshitshit," someone says in quick succession. Patrick thinks better of turning on the light at the same time he's reaching for the dimmer, and then it's too late as the room brightens up.

"Um," Pete says, with his back against the cabinets and trying to suppress his laughter. On the couch, away from him, Patrick sees Mikey sitting bent over his knees and trying hard not to be there. "Hi, Patrick."

Patrick stares until it dawns on him in the next instant, and, "Oh, please tell me I didn't just walk in on -- "

"Then don't ask," Pete says, and he can't dam his laughter anymore. Mikey covers his head, but his shoulders are shaking like he's laughing too, and when Pete reaches out to touch Mikey's arm, Mikey swats at him.

"What?" Frank asks, poking his head up over the wall, and he giggles immediately. "Wow."

"I'm crashing on your bus," Patrick says, turning and motioning for Frank to head back the way they came.

Behind him, Pete shouts, "You should have knocked!"

"It's my _bus_ ," Patrick calls in response. "My stuff is in there!"

"Don't worry, I'm not trying to hook up with your stuff," Pete yells, and Patrick is thankful when the bus door shuts and cuts him off.

Frank crosses his arms over his stomach and laughs harder. Patrick leans against the side of the tour bus and rubs his hands over his eyes, groaning.

He says, "I was really fine with never having to see that."

"You have to laugh to keep from crying," Frank says, patting Patrick's bicep, and there's still something inviting about his smile, but the mood has kind of been ruined. Anyway, they don't have a place to go now. "Want to head back to my bus?"

Patrick doesn't stay the night. He walks back to the other bus with one hand in his pocket and the other tapping an impromptu rhythm against his thigh. Frank gestures with his hands a lot as he talks, swerving occasionally so that he bumps into Patrick every few steps, and on his bus, the rest of his band still lounges, chatting. Patrick hangs around for a handful of hours, eating chips and laughing until Mikey shows, and Bob bothers him with a couple jokes that make Mikey give a guilty smile and Gerard shuts his eyes like closing those automatically transfers to his hearing as well.

It's the perfect time to make an exit, Patrick thinks, and Mikey apologizes quickly while Ray's trying to talk over everyone about some penguin show he once saw. Patrick nods, mutters something that sounds like he's brushing off the whole thing, whatever, and glances at Frank before he leaves. Frank raises his eyebrows, and Patrick lifts his chin and immediately feels lame for it. Frank smiles a little though, and then Patrick calls out a goodnight, and Patrick thinks about the cheerful way Gerard wishes that he, "Sleep well, good buddy!" rather than anything... else as he crawls into his bunk and falls asleep without taking off his glasses.

;;

In the morning, Pete has two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ready for Patrick, which means he's probably working up the nerve to apologize for something. Patrick eats the food, and after he brushes his teeth afterward, Pete braces his hand on either side of the door frame and clears his throat. Patrick runs his tongue across his teeth and prepares himself for --

See, Patrick supposes that, if he really considers it, there is no right way to say, "I'm sorry you and Frank walked in on your bassist blowing his bassist." However, he's still pretty sure that Pete doesn't _have_ to go with that phrasing.

"Did you hear me?" Pete asks, and he snaps his fingers in front of Patrick's face.

"Yeah. Um. You know, whatever," Patrick says. It isn't like he can be all self-righteously offended, since he might have been on his way to getting just as far. Maybe. He's not telling that to Pete though.

Pete says, "If it's any consolation, we didn't get to, like, wrap it up. Nobody finished."

It isn't consoling at all. Patrick had been doing fine without having to feel like he's partially responsible for Pete and/or Mikey's resulting case of blue balls. He shrugs though, because he doesn't really want to say that to Pete either. He also really doesn't want to know any more.

"And I would promise you that you don't have to worry about it happening again," Pete continues, "Except -- "

Patrick tries cut that whole line of conversation. He says, "Just put a sign on the door or something. Just a heads up, okay? Let me out."

Pete steps away to let Patrick exit the tiny washroom. "This isn't the first time you've walked in on me."

"This isn't the first time I've wished I hadn't either," Patrick says. "Pete, I'll live, Frank'll live. It's fine. Can we not?"

"See," Pete says and throws his arms out, huffing, " _I_ knew that, but Mikey thought, you know. He wouldn't let me, like, get back to business until I explained or something. Which fucking sucks, since I was kind of planning to --"

Patrick shakes his head, saying, "It's not that fine, whoa," and Pete laughs.

"I'm messing with you," he says. He leans against the bunks while Patrick slips on a pair of shoes, and then follows him outside when he goes to get his bag from under the bus. He needs a clean outfit. Well, mostly clean. They probably need to find time to handle laundry again. "Hey, but anyway, what do think about about finding a record store today? A used shop, dude. You've got that Califone at home now, right? Maybe they've got a place with good dollar finds out here."

"In Indianapolis?"

"It isn't the middle of nowhere or anything," Pete says, shrugging.

Patrick digs his duffle out from the stuff shoved under the bus and grabs the first t-shirt and pair of jeans he comes across. "I kind of think that would be better. Rural places have weird stuff."

"You can find decent stuff here."

"Of course, but I'm just saying maybe -- "

"Anyway, do you want to?"

Patrick rolls his eyes, pushes his bag into the compartment and again and shuts the doors. He says, "Yes, records. When do I ever not want to?"

"Thought so."

"Yeah, yeah," Patrick says. Bickering vaguely over where to shop for music is more comfortable than talking about the night before though, so Patrick's thankful for the switch.

He gets dressed, tosses his pajamas in his bunk, and heads out of the bus for the day. He doesn't go looking for Frank, it just happens to take Patrick only five minutes to come across him, give or take the minute where he has to go back to his bunk to grab a hat.

Frank holds up his hand as Patrick nears, and Patrick gives him a high-five. He says, "Hey, what's up?"

"Different day, same story," Frank says, and he offers Patrick a bite of the banana he has in his other hand. Patrick breaks off a piece and pops it into his mouth.

"I wish." Patrick looks over his shoulder as if he'll see Pete or Mikey hovering around the bus door just then, but of course no one's coming or going. He looks at Frank again, who's now got a mouthful of fruit. "Pete sends his deepest apologies."

"For what?" Frank furrows his brow and swallows.

"Bus indecency," Patrick explains.

Frank laughs brightly, offering Patrick more of his banana. After Patrick takes another small piece, Frank finishes it and then holds the peel at his side, looking for a trash can. "Mikey just kept asking me not to tell Bob."

"He wasn't worried about Gerard?"

Frank shakes his head. "Yeah, right, because everyone can't wait to tell Gerard. He just gets this queasy look and starts in on how Mikey has the facilities to make his own, personally satisfying choices. You can kind of see the denial set in as it hits him? It's a little depressing to witness, really."

It's Patrick's turn to laugh at the situation, and Frank takes the opportunity to walk away and dump his peel. He comes back and angles out his arm, bent at the elbow in invitation. Patrick raises an eyebrow.

"Shall we?" Frank asks.

Patrick doesn't go for linking. Instead he bumps his own arm into Frank's and they settle for walking close, side-by-side. On the plus side for this morning, it's not as hot as it has been so far this summer. At least not yet. Some bands are still doing sound check, so the music around them is all mashed together, jumbled and cacophonous, but Patrick doesn't mind any of it.

Thinking briefly of Pete and Mikey again, Patrick says, "They're just funny together. _Pete's_ funny."

"I just keep thinking," Frank says, and he touches Patrick's forearm, holding on casually. "It could be worse. We could've been them."

 _That might have been fun_ , Patrick thinks, before he realizes Frank means the getting caught part, and he frowns at his shoes as they walk. That part wouldn't have been any good at all. He recalls the shake of Pete's shoulders and him hiding his grin behind his hands. There's no way Pete would've kept something like that to _him_ self.

"Yeah... Yeah, no," Patrick says. Frank squeezes his arm once, not too much tighter but enough for Patrick to notice. He doesn't pull away, and Patrick's okay with that.

It's an easy day. This far into the tour, they've gotten used to some of the routine parts so that the work is relaxed without being stale. Patrick and Frank check out sets and loiter near some of the media tents. It doesn't escape Patrick that Warped Tour is still a festival every single day, and he's glad to take advantage of that even if it means he spends ninety-eight percent of his time sweating under the sun. At least it's not as humid. That's always an extra thing to worry about when traveling through the midwest or the northeast.

From Indiana, the tour rolls into Ohio. Chicago's only two days away, but the thing about being on the road is that it's never too late into the trip or too early to sneak onto college campuses or hotel grounds and make use of dorm showers or community pools. Anyway, what else is Cleveland good for, really?

When they're realistic and stick only to Motel 6 establishments or Comfort Inns, getting into the pool area is merely one hopped fence away usually, and the people that work there rarely notice if they don't cause _too_ much chaos. Andy suggests it this time, says he wants to dive into the deep end somewhere, and Pete says he'll tell just a few of the other dudes in bands and on the crew which means he tells everyone. Not as many people come along as Patrick expects, but there are enough bodies fighting for space in the water -- literally fighting; if anyone tries to hold his head under the surface again and hold him there, he's going to aim his punches at the knees -- that Patrick gets over the notion fairly quickly. 

He relegates himself to camera duty, filming the stunts that follow every time Pete announces, "Yo, watch this. Watch!" and does something to make yet another unsuspecting victim fall into the pool with his clothes on. It's really sort of hilarious how he gets Mikey. Mikey uses the water as an escape route from Pete's impending attack, and Pete kneels the edge of the pool, laughing until Mikey surfaces again, and Pete kisses the side of his head with a loud smack, shouting when Mikey throws his arms around Pete's shoulders and pulls him down, too.

Patrick swings camera to the side and gets the crowd reactions -- Joe smiling, Ray clapping, and Frank chuckling as he pulls from his cigarette despite being soaking wet himself in only boxers. He has one arm slung across Gerard's back, who doesn't seem to mind even though he's completely dry, and when Frank looks over, Patrick stops recording.

"Mikey Way!" Pete shouts. "Fucking Mikey Way!" And he holds his arms towards Mikey like he's being put on display. When Mike bows his head, Pete drops his arms into the water and sends a rush of water into Mikey's face. Retaliation is immediate, and Pete's laughter halts as soon as Mikey dunks Pete's head for revenge.

Patrick sets the camera down and decides he wants a soda.

The machine for the first floor is around the corner, tucked away at the side of the building. Patrick can still hear everyone splashing and hollering from over there. He hears someone call out his name and then ask, "Hey, where'd he go?" before another splash happens, and Patrick wonders who bit it this time.

He can't decide which soda he wants now that he's here. He's getting ready to give in and just get a Pepsi when Frank says, "Bored already?"

Patrick glances at him, and then back to the buttons on the vending machine. "Thirsty."

"Mm," Frank says, seriously. He leans against the machine and watches Patrick's face. Patrick can feel his eyes on him, and the second that he looks up, Frank reaches for Patrick's side.

Patrick stares him down. He asks, "Seizing the opportunity again?"

Frank grins and steps closer, slipping into the space between Patrick and the soda machine. "Yeah, I'm good for that. I probably should have mentioned it earlier."

"Consider it noted."

"We were interrupted before," Frank says, like that's all the reasoning he needs. 

Patrick supposes it is. It's enough that he opens his mouth, willing and ready when Frank kisses him, despite the logical part of his brain that would feel unloved if Patrick didn't also mentally freak out about how someone could find them here. "Mm, hey."

He pulls back and tugs Frank with him around the machine. Patrick stands against the side, encouraging just a little more privacy, and with Frank in front of him now, pinning him in after they switch places, it's a lot like getting carried away against a fence. Frank must have the same thought, because he snorts, laughter harsh and short, and he says, "No time to find a bus now, huh?"

"Didn't really benefit last time anyway," Patrick says. The words come out with too much air behind them, but Patrick can't really hide how much the want punches through in him in an instant again. Frank touches his stomach, and Patrick presses up on his toes, hoping that Frank's fingers might slip even an inch lower.

Always courteous, Frank says, "I'm gonna -- "

"Yes," Patrick says, and he's lucky that their pool party all start laughing just then, because it means there's no way anyone hears the throaty moan Frank pulls from him with his hand wrapped around Patrick's cock.

Frank kisses Patrick's face, his cheek, and giggles. "I wondered about that. If you'd be noisy."

"Well," Patrick says, because he's certainly got his answer. Frank's getting the dry shirt he put on damp this close, but that's fine. Patrick curls forward and hides his face in Frank's neck to muffles his grunts.

"Wait, I want to see," Frank says before too long. He retreats just enough that he can pull Patrick's cock from his shorts, and they're both looking down at the way Frank's fingers slide over the skin. Patrick feels hot and hopes he isn't flushing all over, but knows he probably is. When they catch one another's eyes, Frank tucks a soft kiss against Patrick's mouth that makes Patrick whimper as his thumb swipes over the head and, yeah, Patrick isn't thirsty or bored in the slightest anymore.

He's going to come soon, and Patrick tries to say that. The message manifests in a useless, breathy repetition of Frank's name and, "Alright, alright," until Frank changes the way he grips Patrick and steps to the side. Like this, Patrick can see the tattoos on Frank's hand, and he's still watching them, examining the colors under a too-yellow florescent bulb, when he finally has to close his eyes and ride out the sparks underneath his skin. In the background, Patrick can hear voices and the intermittent splash of water.

Opening his eyes again, he sees his own come on the gravel. It strikes him oddly, grounds him in this location -- getting handjobs against a _vending_ machine -- but then Frank crowds him, and all Patrick can focus on is the sweet heat of his mouth as Frank politely tucks him back into his clothes.

"There," he says, cheerful and simple. It sounds like the kind of thing someone offers up after they've helped screw in a light bulb -- too everyday -- and Frank leaves Patrick with one last chaste peck on the lips before he explain, "I told Gerard I had to find a bathroom," and then disappears.

When Patrick hears a loud rush of water and people yell, he idly wonders if Frank jumped back into the party with a cannonball.

;;

The thing to keep in mind, Patrick reminds himself, is that it isn't like he's getting into anything he can't handle. He doesn't think it counts as a relationship, tour fling, or some other label that even remotely hints that Patrick's part of a collective here. He's just... spending more time kissing Frank than he originally expected when his band signed on to headline Warped tour. And it's not a bad thing, not at all. They're friends, for one. And two, well, Frank does have a really nice mouth.

They have to roll through Cincinnati before they get to the show in Chicago. Patrick wonders what Frank's doing, wonders what happens now after soda vendors have gotten involved. It's one of those days, though, where the band is too busy to allow for a whole lot of leisure. The amount of interviews always picks up when they're in Los Angeles, New York, or nearing their hometown. Patrick's so exhausted by the end of the day that he sits in the lounge that night, intending to work on some tracks he's just started, but he falls asleep on the couch within fifteen minutes.

And then in Chicago, Pete wants to introduce Mikey to his mom and dad.

"You coming?" he asks Patrick in the morning, stuffing a hoodie in his back and his phone in his pocket. Patrick shakes his head. "Aw, you know my mom's gonna ask about you. She fucking loves you more than me; she's going to be disappointed."

"No, she won't," Patrick mutters, disbelieving. "They're coming out for the set later?"

"Yeah."

"I'll make sure I see them then. My parents are coming too."

"Okay," Pete says, dragging out the word like he's not entirely on board with this idea. He squints, eyeing Patrick and then his phone rings. Patrick knows it has be Mikey before Pete even checks the caller ID and then flips open the phone before it rings for too long. "Hello?"

Patrick doesn't have anything against Pete taking Mikey home, but he doesn't have be around for it either. He tells Pete he's going to find a record store since they never did get around to it in Indiana, and Pete can just meet him there later. Pete waves a hand, acknowledging Patrick as he walks out and talks to Mikey on his cell. When he's gone, Patrick stands around in between the bunks, hears someone grumble and shift around inside one, and then takes out his own phone. It only rings twice.

"Hey," Frank says. "Are you standing next to Pete? I think Mikey's talking to him right now."

"He just walked out," Patrick says and drums his fingers against the edge of his own bunk. "You want to get breakfast?"

The best way to gauge a situation, Patrick figures, is to just throw himself into it. He doesn't always take his own advice, but it would be awkward and disprove his "still friends" theory to avoid Frank now that he's had his hand in Patrick's pants. Besides, he doesn't want to avoid Frank. Also, he's hungry.

Patrick takes him to a diner that Andy likes. He's learned that defaulting to vegan-friendly places means nobody ever gets offended, and Frank actually says, "This is cute," when they walk inside.

"Cute," Patrick parrots.

"What? It is," Frank, defending his statement. Patrick just smiles and finds himself staring at the tattoo on Frank's neck when they first sit down in a booth and Frank's getting settled.

Their meal is enjoyable but quick. There are a lot of things Patrick and the rest of the band have to take care of before their set today, so free hours are still limited. Pete calls when Patrick's only halfway done with his French toast, and they agree on a record shop a couple blocks away from the restaurant.

He doesn't realize until Pete and Mikey get there that he's basically set himself up in the group outing scenario he sort of wanted to avoid. There's nothing obvious about it, just four guys picking through music in a store, but Patrick stands on the opposite side of the tight aisles from Frank and tries not to cast glances their way too much when Mikey and Pete tend to crowd each other when they speak. 

After a while, Patrick takes to busying himself with sorting through each CD in a rack individually. He doesn't notice Mikey and Pete have wandered farther off until Frank comes up next to him, and asks, "Any finds?"

Patrick looks around, and then back down at the CD cover in his hands. He says, "Nope, not yet," and slots it back in with the others. He hasn't really been paying too close attention to the names and titles so much as zoning out, but he moves on to the next row anyway.

Frank drags his fingers along the edge of the shelf, quiet until he says, "I keep waiting for you to kiss me first."

He sort of rushes the words and picks that moment to speak up. The music coming from the in-store speakers does seem a bit louder than normal. They're not standing around at a live show or anything, though, so it's not like Patrick can really mistake what Frank's said either, and yet -- "You, what?"

"I know," Frank says, voice dropping in volume. "It didn't sound quite _that_ stupid until I said it out loud, but, yeah. It's always me."

"I kiss you," Patrick says, and then figures they're probably tied for lamest sentence after that. They've kissed though. Patrick's had Frank's mouth against his enough times now that he might be able to describe his style to someone else if, for some unknown reason, he ever ended up in a situation where that was necessary. The way Frank leans in, how it's always softer than Patrick anticipates, and -- well, now that he's thinking about it, maybe he hasn't been the one to initiate. "I think."

Frank grins, amused, and he glances forward at the stage briefly before returning his attention to Patrick. He says, "I didn't mean to make you feel weird, man."

If that's so, then he kind of failed. Patrick looks across the rows to where Pete and Mikey are comparing some CDs and back. "No, don't worry about it. I'm just thinking, like, we can't -- If I tried to do it now it'd be lame, because we're discussing it."

Frank laughs and sidles closer, head craned inward as he says, "I didn't mean literally. Okay, that phrasing was shitty, but I want to make sure you're cool. Like I was thinking about it, and with the other day, I just don't want to drag you along if you're not as into it."

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, and Frank frowns, so he adds. "I mean, because I am. You're fine. I'm sorry that -- do I seem like I'm not?"

Frank shrugs and then holds, eyes shifting their attention toward the ceiling. "I -- I don't know. Maybe not. I was just checking. You know, don't want to randomly discover that I'm actually freaking you out later."

"Hey, I don't scare that easy," Patrick says and holds a finger up, eyeing Frank and pointing at him. Frank grabs his finger and manages to manipulate it into grasping all fingers but Patrick's thumb, the two of them going through a row of artists and voting no on most of them until Pete comes over, saying Patrick's name.

"Stump, baby, are buying anything?" he asks brightly. Mikey strolls over a second after him, and Patrick casually shakes Frank's grip loose and slips his hand into his pocket.

He says, "I, uh, I don't know yet. Why, are we pressed for time now?"

"Kinda, yeah." Pete holds up his phone like Patrick can read the screen from this distance, and Patrick spares a quick glance over the rows of music before giving up.

"That's -- never mind, I can pick up new stuff later. Yeah, we can go," he says, and turns around to head for the entrance first.

Once they get back to Tweeter Center, they go right into sound check and barely have time to even see their parents in between preparation for the show and then hustling everything out of there afterwards. Coming home is always more hectic than everywhere else, but in a way that Patrick appreciates. Twenty-one years, and he doesn't love Chicago any less. His parents only see him briefly and head home before he gets a chance to say good-bye, but he calls his mother when he gets a chance, and she tells him an anecdote about his stepfather making a wrong turn on a one-way street. Before she hangs up, she asks when the last date of the tour is again, and if he'll have time to come home for a few days at least.

"Halfway through August," he tells her. "The fourteenth or fifteenth, I think."

They've been on this tour for almost a month and a half, past the halfway point, and Patrick doesn't feel like it's been that long at all. After the last date, they have a month before they fly overseas for a few dates in Japan, followed up with another tour of the States. He thinks about that, never having time, and how it means the rest of the dudes he's around this summer are all the same amount of unavailable.

"But do you have time off?" his mom asks.

"Yeah," Patrick says. "I'll have a little time to come back."

;;

It rains on their day off in upstate New York, but the temperature doesn't drop any. Gerard has trouble lighting his cigarette and curses, swearing his life would be easier if he just had a parasol. Bob and Frank laugh at him, and Patrick turns his head to grin.

"Are you just against calling it an umbrella like everyone else, my fair lady?" Bob asks. He's got that perpetual smirk working for him as usual. Gerard rocks his head back and forth, unconcerned and scratches his head.

"The rain in Spain," Frank recites in a ridiculous accent that has him opening his mouth wide around the vowels. He does it once for no one in particular, lost to open air and directs the second attempt at Patrick. "The rain in Spain -- "

"Hey," Patrick says, covering his mouth, and Frank covers those fingers with his own hand. "Want to go somewhere?"

Frank nods. Mikey and Pete make a weird habit of lying out in the middle of the day, getting grass stains on all of their shirts and probably waterlogged, too, considering this weather, so Patrick brings Frank to the bus and figures they can hang out in the lounge. The last thing he's interested in doing right now is getting wrapped up in another accidental, inevitably awkward, makeshift double date and, anyway, it means their bus is probably empty. Joe and Andy are movers, off the bus and hanging out as soon as they get up, and as long as they don't walk in on anyone's private party again, they should be fine.

Patrick can smell food as soon as he punches in the bus code and heads inside, and he's pleasantly surprised to see actual edible items simmering on their tiny stove.

"I don't think our bus has smelled this nice, umm, ever," Frank says, and he flattens his palm against Patrick's spine.

"Don't feel bad just yet," Patrick says, rolling his shoulders, but it's a prelude to settling into Frank's touch rather than moving away. "It wasn't any of our doing."

Their bus driver, it turns out, is a decent cook, and while the rest of them have been hanging around perfecting uselessness, he's trekked to find foods for easy meals. Nobody really uses the stove, but there's a real, true pot of pasta on the burner and a trash bag stuffed with empty water gallons, a sauce jar, and empty noodle packages.

"Is there meat in that?" Frank asks.

Patrick surveys the scene and determines that, "Nah, it looks like Marinara."

"Ooh." Frank reaches out to uncover the pot, and Patrick stops him, pulling his wrist back.

"Later," he says, and Frank looks disappointed, but Patrick sighs. "Remember? I asked if you wanted to go somewhere..."

Frank perks up when he catches the hint again, unbuttoning Patrick's shirt from the bottom. "That's right. Sorry, sorry."

"Almost lost you to a plate of spaghetti," Patrick teases.

"It smells good," Frank says, and then laughs guiltily, the sound muffled as Patrick leans forward and steals it with his lips. Frank whimpers, tugging on the open side of Patrick's shirt, and mumbles, "Thaaaat's what I was looking for," in a triumphant, sing-song voice that makes Patrick laugh and kiss him harder.

Frank steps back and strips off his shirt. One of the good things about Frank is that he's even better looking without clothes than with them. One of the _great_ things about Frank is that he feels the need to extend the privilege of witnessing this in person to Patrick.

Patrick exhales in a rush and says, "Yeah, I'm definitely into this."

Frank's laughter fills the entire bus it sounds like, but he comes forward again and just urges Patrick to get his own shirt off too so that, when they kiss, Patrick feels warm skin to skin. He says, "Good. We're still not naked enough."

"Okay," Patrick says. That sort of issue is easily fixed. 

He kicks at the bunks as they head toward the rear lounge to make sure no one's getting an earful, but it seems to be only them. Patrick flops down on the couch, and Frank kneels over him, half-straddling Patrick's right thigh. It's like the first time they made out in here, an unexpected round of lips and teeth, except now is about ten times better.

Frank hangs back enough to watch Patrick's face. He has his hands on Patrick's shoulders, and Patrick takes the opportunity to slide his thumbs over the sparrows on Frank's abs, over his belly, and the giggle he provokes stops him. Frank's flicking his lip ring with his tongue, engaging Patrick in a moment of relaxed observation that finally almost does start to make Patrick anxious, but then Frank slips back off the seat and moves to the floor.

"Oh," Patrick breathes, timid, and Frank touches his shins.

"You have to spread your knees," he directs, and he helps get that going. Patrick curls his hands next to his thighs and obliges.

;;

They aren't friends anymore. They aren't friends, but they aren't dating, so Patrick doesn't actually know _what_ they are or if he should even spend time worrying about that part. They find ways to hook up in Montreal, again in Detroit, and Patrick jerks Frank off in a fast food restroom stall just outside of Bergettstown, Pennsylvania. In between, Frank is still one the funniest people Patrick has had the pleasure of meeting, especially when he and Bob get going on one subject or another. Patrick hangs out on Frank's bus with his band and leaves when Pete and Mikey come to hold up for the evening. There's something about the lack of definition to the way he and Frank collide that makes Patrick feel like he should be especially discreet. No one else can pick it apart if they don't show it off, and with Pete and Mikey failing at the notion so spectacularly all summer, Patrick thinks they must be doing an alright job of skimming under the radar until they get down to Atlanta.

It may be his imagination, but there's something ominous about how Gerard stamps out his cigarette and then picks it up to toss in a trash can. In the next instant, Patrick feels absurd for thinking that, because all Gerard says is, "Every time I smoke another one of these, I think I should quit after I finish."

"Have you ever tried?" Patrick asks.

"Maybe every other pack," Gerard says, visibly considering exactly how often. He coughs and flaps his hand, dismissing it. "Ah, well. Frank is worse than me though. Frank is _dedicated_ to his nicotine."

"I've noticed." 

Patrick has. It's become something he's grown accustomed to -- Frank smelling faintly of smoke and summer sweat. It's not disgusting; it's more like an identifier, and the other day Patrick found himself tempted to pick up another pack of Frank's brand in the store, because he'd known Frank was down to his last two.

"Oh, right," Gerard says and taps his forehead as if embarrassed that he'd forgotten something. Patrick's about to ask what that means, but Gerard expands on his reaction, adding, "I forget that you are hanging out, because you don't stay over all the time. Mikey brings his -- guy -- you know. I see Pete all the time, but you two, wow. You vanish."

"Hm," Patrick says, because he doesn't know what else to say. Atlanta's warmer than Montreal, but Patrick rubs his hands together and kind of wants his jacket.

"And I don't think Frank stays over on yours either. Does he?" Gerard asks. 

Not overnight, no. Patrick shakes his head, and Gerard taps the front pouch of his hoodie like he's tempted to pull out another smoke but settles for his hooking thumb inside his jeans pocket. He purses his lips and frowns before relaxing his face again and just waiting. He says, "This is a pretty strange summer. Strange tour."

Patrick couldn't agree more. It must be even stranger than he's assumed though if Gerard's commenting on it. Patrick's heard about what his last one was like.

"Only two weeks left," Patrick points out. "Almost two weeks."

"It's funny how, out loud, that doesn't sound that long. Two weeks is nothing, but on tour so much stuff happens on the road sometimes -- when you're traveling."

"Yeah," Patrick says, but he thinks it's something that's circumstantial. He thought about how much time they had left in that Pennsylvania bathroom, carding his hand between Frank's skin and the waistband of his underwear, and two weeks just seemed like two weeks. A few more chances to sneak in time for quick gropes and quiet kisses, but even when he added all of those moments together, they didn't really amount to much at all.

Warped has four Florida dates scheduled in four days, and they hit all the major cities. The two-hundred forty miles between Orlando and Miami means they don't get a chance to enjoy the theme parks before their show at Tinker Field, but Ray heads up what Joe calls Mission: Sandy Shores, because he says he woke up with an intense desire to throw frisbee, and they make some time for the beach. 

For someone so pumped about tossing plastic plates, Ray sure sucks at not nearly flinging the frisbee out into the water. Frank tries to play with him, and every other toss goes over his head, making him jump up and land on his ass in the sand. Patrick sits upwind with Mikey, making good use of somebody's bath towel. They laugh at everybody's attempts to show Ray how it's done until Bob finally tells him to sit down and watch, because he's ruining it for everyone.

"I was getting it!" Ray insists, but he steps aside and watches Andy and Bob make several smooth exchanges in a row.

Patrick's wearing a hat, but the sun's so bright that he's still squinting despite himself. He sits up straighter, and Mikey shifts too, dusting his hands together and saying, "I'm a master at frisbee. People don't think I can play sports and stuff, but I'm a master."

"What else did you play?" Patrick asks. He's no longer watching the frisbee sail back and forth in favor of noticing Frank laugh every time Ray says he wants another turn and the others ignore him. Frank laughs with his whole body. He arches back and aims the sound at the sky.

"Street hockey," Mikey says, lifting his chin a little and smiling with the right side of his mouth. "I'm great on skates. I can play soccer, too, kind of."

"I've never played -- basketball, baseball, soccer. It's all beyond me."

Mikey presses his hand into the sand, turns it over and slowly dusts it off again, this time, running the index of the opposite hand over each finger individually. He says, "Well, I never really did, like, _teams_ , like Pete. And I don't really follow much."

"Sometimes Pete tries to talk to me about soccer, his favorite teams and stuff, and I just have to nod along like I'm following," Patrick says, and Mikey laughs, agreeing. "I know maybe, um, the name of the Chicago team. The Chicago Fire, which is either clever or unfortunate, I can't decide."

"Yeah, he was trying to tell about, uh. Some guy, some player," Mikey says and shakes his head when he clearly can't remember. "He's serious about it."

Patrick chuckles. "Yeah, that's Pete."

Frank walks toward them, and Patrick straightens up again, head tilted up to catch his eyes. He holds out a hand for Patrick and says, "You look like a man who's ready to blow this popsicle stand. You want lunch?"

Patrick grabs it and lets Frank help him up. "Yeah," he says, and then tuns to Mikey. "You coming?"

"Mm." Mikey presses his lips together and wrinkles his nose against the harsh sunlight. His gaze flashes from Patrick to Frank and back. "No, I'm good. Bring me a water or something."

Patrick twists his foot on the sand, wondering what Mikey's thinking. He feels self-conscious then, but says sure and doesn't give himself time second guess leaving. Instead of lunch, Frank and Patrick return to the venue, to the buses, and they share half a bag of tortilla chips before crawling into Patrick's bunk and exchanging salty kisses. Frank's weight over Patrick smother him, it relaxes him, and he revels in the bump of their hips and the damp slide of their mouths. It's consuming but not urgent, Patrick closing his eyes and encouraging Frank's tendency to press his fingers into Patrick's cheek as he kisses him quiet, and then quieter still when they doze together and sleep off the glare of the sun.

Less than two weeks left. They don't have any more days off between here and Massachusetts.

;;

His band has toured this area a few times, put on shows in nearby Maryland or Virginia, but Patrick hasn't actually seen the White House before they play Nissan Pavilion. The buses get into town in the middle of the night, and Patrick doesn't know why he's up at 4 A.M. on the telephone with Frank a few buses away, but it leads to coming up with a small, spontaneous adventure before sunrise.

The ride from the lot to Pennsylvania Avenue takes just under an hour in a taxi, and that fare is going to kill Patrick when he has to hand over the cash, but Frank surreptitiously reaches for his hand in the backseat, and Patrick stops thinking about it. He's still the same amount of sarcastic Patrick's enjoyed since even before the beginning of this tour, but he's also still the guy that doesn't let go even when they're a block away from 1600, their fingers tangled against the chill of the morning that never lasts. 

He's wrapped in his thin sweater with a knit scarf looped around his neck, and his hair lays messy on his head. He keeps touching his free fingers to his mouth and looking around as they walk, and Patrick wants to say something. It feels like that kind of moment, but nothing comes to mind, so he asks, "Where'd you get that scarf?"

"Um." Frank looks down at the way it hangs in front of him, flips up the edge. "This one? I think it's Gerard's, but I'm not sure if he bought it or if someone made it for him. I've been wearing it though."

"It's nice," Patrick says, sort of frowning at how pointless a question that was. Frank smirks and lifts the hanging part to throw around Patrick's neck, too.

Patrick laughs, but he can smell Frank even more clearly as he hooks the scarf around the back of his neck. They stop in front of the gate, Patrick doesn't loosen his grip on Frank's hand, just stands carefully so that the scarf doesn't slip, linking them.

He stares across the lawn at the White House, and after a minute, laughs softly, saying, "I don't know even why I wanted to come out here so bad. It's not like I care _that_ much."

"Yeah," Frank says, "but it's one of those things you kind of have to do just so you can tell other people how overrated it is."

"I'm sleepy."

"That's because we've been up all night," Frank reminds him, and yeah. That's true. Patrick has never really seem himself as that person, someone who goes on about nothing just because he doesn't want to hang up. That's more a Pete thing. He's heard Pete calling people in his bunk at irrational hours, sentences muffled by pillows and the drone of the bus, but it's nearing 6 A.M. now, and Patrick has been up for almost a full day.

"Yeah," Patrick says. They hang around for a few minutes, nowhere near enough time to justify how much it costs to get here and back, but Patrick isn't disappointed.

He watches My Chemical Romance's set side-stage that afternoon with Joe, Pete, and a bunch of crew guys, and then again in Scranton. Between songs, Frank plays a familiar opening rhythm, and Pete and Joe cheer, but Frank glances at Patrick and smiles with practically every tooth in his mouth visible. During "I'm Not Okay," Patrick mouths along with Gerard's vocals, and he finds himself wondering how many times he's watched this set. How many times has he watched Frank play like that, intense and falling on his knees or on his back, making Patrick wonder if he's like that in other situations too? Definitely more than once -- more than twice. It bugs him, though, that he still really knows only so much about that answer. Tour bunks and public bathrooms are about as limiting as they seem.

Worm tosses Frank a towel when he gets offstage, and he scrubs it over his face. Moving it down to his neck, Frank stands in front of Patrick and says, "This is random, but halfway through, after Gerard kept yelling for people to get into it, saying the town over and over, I kept thinking about that TV show. _The Office_? Have you seen that? I think it's new."

"Oh, yeah, yeah."

Frank laughs. "I couldn't get that dude -- the weird one with the glasses. I couldn't get him out my head, man, trying to picture him doing our songs."

"You're right," Patrick says, "that is random."

He's smiling though, mirroring Frank's amusement. Frank says, "I know, but it would _not_ leave me alone." He drapes the towel over his hair and leans closer as he continues speaking. "Meet me in like fifteen minutes after I throw on different clothes, because I also kept thinking about how much I wanted to make out with you."

"Oh," Patrick says, and that just makes him grin harder. "Okay."

It's not something they're new to at this point, sneaking off so Patrick can fold his fingers in Frank's front pockets and taste him behind tents and trucks. Patrick realizes they've been at this for weeks, relishing the physical, and each time spikes his heart rate like a push-pull against a chain link fence or in the middle of air-drumming in the rear of his tour bus. They have four mores dates of this tour left before all of the bands part ways, and Patrick's taking every chance to make repeat offenses that he can get.

In Camden, Pete keeps talking about how he's trying to get Mikey to try to convince his parents to come out to the show now even though they'll probably come to the date in Englishtown in two days. Gerard laughs and says there's no way their Ma is going to do it. Patrick doesn't care either way, because he's busy trying to find Shawn and the rest of his band so they can split bottles of wine.

He isn't at all drunk when he performs that evening, though his limbs are warm and loose. He's sure to make up for the gap between sobriety and satisfied after their set, though, and Patrick's pleasantly tipsy by the time he stumbles out of the Matches bus and finds Frank sitting on the grass near his own bus. He's got a jacket in his lap, concentrating on the fabric, and Patrick flops down beside him, leaning into his shoulder.

"Whoa, whoa," Frank says, and belatedly puts up some resistance, rocking so that Patrick sits upright on his weight again. "Not too heavy. I'm trying to do this."

"What is it?"

"Trying to sew this patch on," he explains, gnawing his lip. Patrick presses his lips together as he nods, impressed. "You missed it: Mikey put it on speaker while he failed to get his mom and dad to come out here today."

"But they'll show up in a couple days. All of your family will, won't they?" Patrick says. He sighs and crosses his legs. Sometimes these things just refuse to be avoided. "I think I'm gonna go to sleep early."

Frank looks up, still biting at his lip idly, but he stops when he leans forward to smack a kiss on the side of Patrick's face. "You're priceless when you're drunk."

"You can tell?"

"That, and you always go hang out over there. How was the tasting?"

Patrick smiles, sloppy. He's watching Frank's fingers work with thread and needle and idly scratches his knee as he says, "They all tasted good."

Frank laughs. "You should go crash, Patrick. If you're tired, you know, go ahead and get yours. I'll bother you tomorrow."

"Mm." Patrick weighs staying outside longer. He wants to, but the dark confines of his bunk actually _call_ to him for once, so he squeezes Frank's shoulder and gets to his feet. "Okay. Okay, tomorrow."

;;

Tomorrow. His eyes flutter open when the bus bumps over something and bounces more than he usually feels. In New York, there are so many more people packed so much closer together than any other city that the noise always chips away at Patrick's attention-span and drowns out his own thoughts. They aren't even playing in Times Square or anything, not with the size of Warped, but it's a general idea to which he clings and uses as an excuse to, for a little while, just do what he wants.

When the buses park, he doesn't check the time. Patrick slips on shoes, pads down a-ways until he gets to the other bus, punches in the code, and then quietly makes his way into Frank's bunk.

"Sleep in with me," Patrick says as Frank stirs.

"Hey," Frank says sleepily, scooting back into the wall, but Patrick's legs still end up crowding his.

"Andy's singing on our bus. I needed to get away."

"Really?" Frank mutters, his half-hearted chuckles sleep-thick.

"No. I don't really have a reason. Come on, let's sleep in," Patrick repeats, and he's already halfway there before he hears Frank accept.

;;

The only thing stranger than each time his own parents want to come check out tours and see what it's like to be cramped up with a bunch of dudes, washing up in bathroom sinks on the days when they can get so lucky, is when Patrick sees other people's parents doing it. If Patrick thought an impressive amount of family and friends came out for Chicago shows, then Jersey certainly knows how to up the ante. It might just be because he doesn't know any of these people and therefore runs into someone to shake hands with every two feet that it seems like more, but Patrick does feel like he's been meeting people all afternoon. Even the My Chem manager -- even a few of Brian's family members come out to see the show.

After he meets Ma Way, Pete can't stop going on about her hair and how she's exactly like Mikey says, except _more_ , and how that's amazing. When Patrick encounters her, she is everything he's heard from Gerard and Mikey, and Pete beams the whole time, then shakes hands with Mikey's dad. Patrick meets Ray's brother, Lou, and they talk about music, about playing, and as Patrick laughs at something he says about Eddie Van Halen's double-fret method, Patrick laughs, and notices Frank's father and grandfather have shown up a few feet away.

He's being introduced to them seconds after he realizes who he's seeing, and Patrick maintains his grin even as Frank's dad says, "Yeah, Patrick. I've heard about you. Frank says you're good at what you do."

"Great guitar player," Frank says. "And he plays drums, too."

"Well, hey, this is a young man I want to know," Frank's grandfather pipes up. He shakes Patrick's hand, grip firm. "I'm a drummer myself."

The whole evening is surreal, Patrick watching Frank and the rest of his band perform next while standing next to Frank's dad, and then singing on-stage knowing that they might be watching him. Once again, it's hot and humid, Patrick sweating behind a mic and his guitar on a Sunday afternoon, and shows are usually the last place he ever thinks about church or anything of that nature, but there's something about the presence of parents that makes the whole setting seem more proper. People are always on their best behavior when parents show up.

Brian suggests going out for dinner when everyone's crowded around the buses. Immediately Gerard and Mikey start saying, "No, Ma! Ma, you have to stay. You have to come," and Pete's throwing out suggestions like he knows anything about the area. Patrick hangs back. He feels suddenly tired, exhausted from a long day, a long two months, and tomorrow is their last show, so he needs enough energy to get through that.

It's easier to slip away than he expects. He climbs onto the bus and sticks to the lounge, working on half-finished projects saved to his laptop. Joe calls him twenty minutes later, asking, "Dude, what happened to you?"

"I walked off for a second, came back, and everybody had disappeared!" Patrick says. He's only gotten marginally better at lying since grade school. He's good enough to avoid smaller confrontations, but he'd never fool himself into thinking he could trick a lie-detector test.

"Aww, Patrick, come _on_. You're kidding me."

Joe says he'll make sure they bring something back for him if they don't manage to clean out the place with how many people they're bringing through. Patrick can hear people talking in the background -- some shouting -- and imagines sitting at a dinner table next to Frank, Sr. across from Pete and Mikey.

To Joe, he says, "I'm sorry I'm missing out."

"Foul, Stump. Foul."

He goes back to his music when he ends the call and dozes off before they get back, stretched across the couch and his laptop set on the floor. His nap feels longer than it must actually last, Patrick finally jolted awake by a to-go container landing in his lap.

"Hey," he says, sitting upright quickly. He blinks, and Pete's taking off his hoodie and toeing off his sneakers a foot away. Patrick looks down at his lap. "Is this my lasagna?"

"It's a salad," Pete says. "You didn't earn pasta. Why you'd bail?"

"I told Joe." The scent of the food hits him as soon as he opens the container, and Patrick dips his finger in the excess sauce pooling around the food and tastes it. "I was gonna come right back, but you guys had left. "

"Uh huh. It was a good time. Fucking hilarious, like -- Mikey and Gerard's parents? A riot," Pete says, and he doesn't bother moving his stuff to his bunk or setting it aside neatly. They're alike that way, him and Patrick. They have a habit of letting things drop wherever and worrying about it getting in everyone's way later.

Patrick says, "Ray's brother plays about as well as -- "

"I think Frank's waiting for you."

"Wh -- huh. Why?" Patrick asks, and the top flap of his container makes a hollow rattling noise when the plastic falls backward onto his knees.

Pete shrugs. "I don't know. He asked where you were, and I told him I'd send you over there if you were up."

"I was asleep."

"And you're up now," Pete says, pleasantly. He smiles at Patrick, and then turns around to walk down the short hall and grab something from his bunk. He comes back holding a book and his own laptop, and he curls his legs under himself on couch near Patrick. "He probably wants to touch you in special places, dude, that's what you guys do."

"Shut up."

"So, that _is_ what you do?" Pete asks, eyebrows raised and betraying his surprise. "Wow, yeah, so, Andy owes me two hundred dollars."

"I'm not talking about this." Patrick closes his container, not in the mood to eat now. He makes to stand up and leave the area.

Pete says, "I _told_ him you had to have gotten there. Nobody disappears that much _just_ to swap spit."

" _Pete_ ," Patrick says, warning him. There have been a few conversations that Patrick hasn't wanted to engage Pete in so far this summer, and this is definitely another to add to the list. "God. It's not like you and Mikey aren't constantly doing your thing -- "

"Yeah, but fucking everybody knows about that, and we're actually not," he says, stopping Patrick dead. What? Patrick looks at him, but he can't really gauge what Pete's expression means. "Not anymore."

Patrick asks, "Since when?"

"Yesterday."

"Wow."

"It happens," Pete says and shrugs again like that's the whole of it. It happens. Patrick might believe that coming from someone else, but not many things ever "just happen" to Pete and end quite that neatly.

Patrick fidgets, tapping his hand against his thigh. "Um. Was it -- "

"I was serious about Frank waiting for you, dude," Pete interrupts. Patrick can take a cue when he's given one, and if Frank is waiting for him outside, then, yeah, Patrick should get out there.

"Right," he says. "Okay, yeah."

He heads past the bunks and through the front lounge, setting his meal down on the counter on his way out of the door. It isn't exceptionally late yet, only just nearing midnight, and Patrick spots Frank talking to some crew guys. He's got a cigarette in hands, pausing his laughter to take drags. When he looks over and notices Patrick, he pats one of those guys on the arm and excuses himself, walking over in no rush at all.

"Hey," he says. "I thought you probably went to sleep."

"I did doze off for a second."

Frank nods and puts the cigarette to his lips one last time, then flicks it away. They fall into step naturally, strolling away from the buses with no real direction or destination. Frank says, "We missed you earlier. You only got a taste of what it's like when all of our families are around each other."

"You make it sound like a, uh, wacky distant relatives reunion," Patrick says.

"It pretty much is." Frank laughs, and he's such a velcro walker, still prone to colliding with Patrick gently after so many steps and the retreating just barely. "Ehh, you're probably lucky you missed it. My grandfather kept going on about how he liked your set. He probably would've tried to convince you to come by his house so he could see how you do on his kit."

Patrick smirks. "He would be disappointed. I'm not the best."

"You'd be fine," Frank says. "You played alright with us. And you used to do shows with Pete's hardcore bands, right?"

"Yeah, a couple times," Patrick says, and he catches Frank's arm and pauses, facing him. "Look, I don't think I can do, like. Me and you, uh."

He can't find a way to say what he means that doesn't sound ridiculous. He holds a hand up, stumbles over the same few words, and it's an alternative that's no less pathetic, but Patrick doesn't know what else to tell him. Frank nods, though, and exhales a breath that also brings his shoulders down. Patrick feels like shit already.

"I kind of figured that was probably coming," Frank says, but he doesn't sound like that means he's happy about it. "Having my family here. That was weird for you."

"No, that's not -- "

"What, do they smell funny?" Frank asks, trying to make light.

"No," Patrick says and can't help chuckling. "Frank, come on, don't."

"Don't what? What am I supposed to say?" Frank asks, honestly. He tucks his hands in his pants pockets and worries at his lip ring with his teeth.

Patrick skids the sole of his shoe along the pavement and concentrates on not looking away. He says, "I'm not trying to be, you know. But it's been a few weeks -- really good weeks, and the tour. Tomorrow's the last day, and -- "

"No, I get it." Frank nods along with everything Patrick says. He scratches his neck, and then waves the hand, at a loss. "And you're right, so. I mean, I guess we both kind of knew that it would --"

"Yeah."

"Okay, yeah. If that's what you want," Frank says, but they don't immediately move. He reaches out and knocks his knuckles against Patrick's arm, not enough to be intimate and not purposely companionable enough to seem like he's covering for something, but they're... friends. They're friends, Patrick thinks. That's what they are.

He should probably go back to the bus then. He could use some more sleep before the ride into Massachusetts for the last show. Frank doesn't seem like he intends to head anywhere just yet, and so Patrick starts to turn around. He can admit that he'd been dreading this conversation a little, worried about how it would go, but they've handled everything so fast -- over and done. Patrick can eat his dinner and doze right back off if he wants, but that's the part where he gets stuck.

"That's not what I want," he says. Frank raises his head, looking up from considering the ground, and Patrick takes a breath. "It's not what I want. It's just what's practical. Realistically, like, we had fun, but I'm supposed to go home the day after tomorrow, and I know you guys probably have stuff to take care of after this, so it ends, you know? I can like this as much as I want, but the timing's still all fucked up, so it doesn't matter -- "

Frank shakes his head, brow wrinkled. "Wait, but that's not. What are you talking about? You're in band for a living. The timing's _always_ wrong. You're supposed to just do things anyway."

"Right, because that's guaranteed to work out."

"That's not the point!"

"Yes, it is!" Patrick's skin heats up. He can sense himself getting tense, anxious and overwhelmed by what he wants to say. "It's easier on tour. You like hanging around somebody, and it's cool, because you see them every day, but then it ends. That's how it works. Tomorrow's the last show, and then things change."

"Or they won't," Frank says, advancing a pace each time Patrick moves away.

"They do."

"But how do know that?"

"Pete and Mikey broke up," Patrick says.

Frank frowns. He shrugs and shakes his head, confusion apparent. "I don't get it. Is that like -- are you surprised? Or -- "

" _No_." Patrick throws out his arms, laying it out there. "That's it, though, right? What else were they gonna do? If you cut it off now at least you don't hate each other, because you know it won't work out. But how do you do that? How do you go from being that into somebody every single day, and then it's over right at the beginning? I can't -- that's not I want, but it's not up to me, because tomorrow is still it. Then what?"

"And then you could stay here a few more days," Frank says, stepping closer still. He touches Patrick. Carefully, he goes for his forearm as if he's afraid Patrick will start and run off. "Or if you're in that big a hurry to fly back, I'll come to Chicago, whatever."

Patrick says, "Frank."

"I don't want it to be the last day either," Frank says, and Patrick doesn't think he's imagining that slight note of pleading. Frank rocks inward, hovering close to Patrick's face but not kissing him. Just near.

Patrick wants to break. He has one hand curled into a fist, his fingernails digging half-moons into his palm. Frank smells faintly of smoke, like always. He smells like smoke and something else distinctly Frank, and there's no way dropping this is what Patrick wants.

"It's not simple just because you say so," he says.

Frank laughs lightly, and he bumps his mouth against Patrick's chin. His breath rushes across the underside, and Patrick sighs. Frank mutters, "Yeah, but it also doesn't mean it has to be impossible. Easy options, man, yes or no?"

He echoes his answer in his mind over and over before he nods and figures, to hell with it. If he knew what he was doing, Patrick wouldn't have gotten himself into this in the first place. If he hadn't wanted, Patrick wouldn't have let Frank kiss him no matter how disarming Frank had been while Patrick practiced that drums sequence.

"Okay," he says finally. He repeats it and dips his head so their mouths are closer together, and it's not the exact word, but it counts.

After a moment, Frank says, "You've been around Pete for too long. His neuroses are rubbing off on you."

Patrick groans and has to chuckle pathetically. "That's really not helping."

"Calm down," Frank says, laughing. Patrick feels the scrape of his teeth on his jaw, and then Frank kisses the skin. He tucks one against the corner of Patrick's mouth, too. "You're good, relax."

Alright. It takes a couple breaths, but Patrick does. 

;;

He sleeps in Frank's bunk, but in the morning, Patrick slips out early to walk back to his own once the buses are parked. Pete's in the front lounge, either already awake or yet to get some rest. Sometimes Patrick can't tell.

His voice is low but happy as he says, "Hello there, sunshine."

"What are you doing up?"

"I did sleep, if that's what you mean," Pete says, holding up his finger as he makes his point. "Just reading my book -- "

"I'm dating Frank," Patrick says. The sentence rolls from his tongue strangely as he tests out the words, but Patrick runs his tongue over his teeth. He feels out the shape of his mouth after they've been said and doesn't regret them either.

Pete hesitates, taken aback. "Um. Cool?"

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not patronizing you; I'm still half-asleep," Pete says, sarcastic and slightly mocking, and Patrick gives him a withering smile. Pete closes his book and sets it aside on the small table. "So, what, are we allowed to talk about this now? No big secret anymore."

"It wasn't a secret," Patrick says, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. He takes a seat on the couch on the opposite side of the space. "I was being cautious."

"You were being a pansy about owning up to it," Pete amends. He angles himself in his own seat so that he can look at Patrick straight on. "Which you only do with stuff you're really into but second guess yourself about."

Patrick snorts, laugh harsh and quick. Fucking Pete. Patrick could be surprised that Pete hasn't changed at all in the last two months, constantly looking out for him, but then he'd have to also admit to being either completely naive or a complete idiot.

He says, "Yeah, well -- "

"Save it." Pete cuts him off. He pulls one of his legs up into the chair and rest his chin on his knee. He says, simply, "Patrick, I already like the dude."

Yeah. Patrick looks at his watch and wonders if he has time to slide back into Frank's bunk after he cleans up a little and changes his shirt at least. Across from him, Pete keeps watching him, but in the comfortable way he's been doing for years, so it doesn't bother. Patrick wonders if Pete's thinking about Mikey -- _knows_ he probably is -- and decides he'll mention not going back to Chicago right away later.

"Yeah," Patrick says. He wonders what Frank's place looks like. "Yeah, me too."

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to all the lovely folks who fielded parts of this story and the idea for me, including teaspoon, ficbyzee, and joyfulseeker. Contains some small references/similarities to [Our Spirit Ain't Wrinkled](https://gigantic.livejournal.com/423676.html). Um, let's pretend Patrick played drums for MCR a couple times and not just the last date of the tour. Yeah. Yay for skewing canon! I started writing this thing months ago, but then other people posted better interpretations, so I stopped, right? And those other stories are still better, but I figured one more couldn't hurt.


End file.
